What's Past Is Prologue: Ghosts of Christmas Present
by olehistorian
Summary: Charles, Elsie, and the gang from What's Past is Prologue are celebrating Christmas 2017 style. A sequel.


A/N: I will periodically offer glimpses into the WPIP world. This is one: Ghosts of Christmas Present. There will be a Ghost of Christmas Past and Ghost of Christmas Future in other years if I'm still kicking and anyone still wants to read them. If you aren't familiar with WPIP it all began with the one-shot "I'm Afraid You are Going to Continue to Wonder." You can read it Here. It is set five years before this offering so approximately in 2012. WPIP is set in 1991. As for ages: Charles, Elsie, and all the main characters are the ages that their real-life alter egos are. The only differences are that Thomas is late 40s, William and Daisy are very late 30s to no older than 41. Charles's mother is 95. Charlie is 24. I hope you enjoy! Happy Christmas! It has been proofed but if I missed something please pardon, I'm trying to get it out for Christmas.

* * *

 **Christmas Day 2017**

 **Ghosts of Christmas Present**

The winter is a cold one; even for England in late December and damp is settling in her bones. She has begun to feel more than just the odd ache in her right knee and ankle; reckons that she is not long off from seeing the doctor about it, though she'll not say much to Charles about it because aches and pains really are only a part of getting older. In actual fact, Elsie is more worried about the shaking in Charles's hands, the tremor which so unnerves him, though the doctor swears to them it is nothing more sinister than essential tremor and that it can be controlled with medicine and rest.

If life were only as simple as that.

The last few weeks have been nothing short of a whirlwind, most of it spent in the States. What with its endless energy, three parts invigorating and one-part irritating, Charles is glad to be home finally in the more familiar and peaceful confines of their London home, a centuries old brick Georgian, where the fire burns steady and he can shut out the world if he takes a notion. Where they can enjoy being out of the limelight for "half a minute" as his wife put it just the other day. Where, should he decide, he can pull the drapes and simply be; leave his coarse hair in its natural state, wiry and a bit untamed. Home is a place where Elsie can retreat when the media insist on a bit too much of her attention, when they inquire how she manages to stay fit, and what kind of skin cream she uses, or if she intends to cook Christmas Day lunch or if her family will dine out. They would be shocked to know that she and Charles live pedestrian lives when the cameras are off; that they are hardly the glamourous couple everyone envisions. They love the garden, cook their own meals, don't have domestic staff, (save the lone cleaning lady who comes once a fortnight and a gardener who does the heavy lifting once a month), Charles's favorite dish is a hearty helping of Sheperd's pie with a slice of apple crumble for dessert, and Elsie buys an inexpensive pot of face cream at the local Boots. As for staying fit, well, that's a matter of genetics and walking the endless blocks with their dog, an old fox terrier named Snow.

Elsie never dreamt that so many people would be interested in the mundane life of a farmer's daughter turned writer. But after twenty best-selling books and the unimaginable global success of Callingwood Place, her upstairs-downstairs novel turned television show loosely based on her old friends the Crawleys and their country pile at Downton Abbey, Elsie Carson is a source of fascination around Britain, America, and beyond. Sometimes, when she thinks too long on things, allows the melancholy to take hold, she wishes that her father could see her, could see the success she's become.

But this morning they aren't due any place; everyone is coming to them. It's Christmas and they are playing hosts as they have the past twenty-four years. The only thing that disrupts them this morning is the alarm on Charles mobile awakening them; the piercing techno metallic sound of the thing is an affront to his senses; somehow not proper and every morning he swears that he is bringing back his old mechanical clock; the one that was his grandfather's, a clock that ticks and has proper bells. He put it away when George was born because the child has a natural fascination with all things mechanical and at fifteen months, the boy can destroy a steel ball with a rubber mallet. But Charles is loath to say much; like all grandfathers, he knows that his grandson is merely curious, a genius in the making. Isn't all one's grandchildren? But better to keep treasures put away until the lad is a little older and the curiosity tempered.

Charles groans as he rolls over, taps his mobile, and silences the alarm. He then reaches for his wife. She is fast asleep, her hair all feathered out on the pillow, strands of fine silver, struggling to make their prominence known among the dark brown and russet strands. She threatens to let it all go one day, to stop the once-a-month trips to the hairdressers where she pays a bloody fortune having "the traitors dyed so that I don't look like my dug-up gran." Looking over at her now, Charles lifts a strand from her forehead, pushes it back, and she begins to stir. She stretches out like a feline, all taut, limbs extended, belly pushed out and then she twists.

"You're staring."

"I'm admiring," he corrects her, his palm landing softly on her stomach.

"Not much to admire these days."

"There's everything to admire," Charles assures her, leaning down to kiss the tender skin where shoulder and neck meet.

"You're such a terrible liar," she sighs as he kisses her once again and his hand begins a slow and deliberate ascent up her ribcage, his fingertips dancing along every ridge and valley until he reaches the soft flesh of her breast. "You're such a …." She relishes the gently insistent touch of her husband.

"I'm such a what?" The words are warm against the silk of her cheek. She wants to say that he is incorrigible, a distraction; that he is a wonderful husband who, after a quarter century of marriage, still knows all the right places to kiss or exactly how to touch her that makes her sigh in pleasure; that even though two years ago she passed her sixtieth birthday he still makes her believe that she is beautiful and sexy. She knows that she's lucky to have a husband who elicits such feelings in her when many of their friends are divorced or even widowed. To be with the same man all these years, managing the hard years when the schedules of career and family sometimes collided, clinging to one another through the devastating loss of _he_ r mother and _his_ father, and now the easy years, with Charles retired, half their time spent at the cottage in Downton, and the glorious birth of their grandson; her life with Charles is something she never takes for granted.

"I'm glad to be back in my own bed," Elsie confesses. She enjoys the trips overseas, enjoys the press junkets and meeting the fans, but she is always glad to be home with Charles, glad to be wrapped up in their little love nest as Beryl once teased them.

"I'm glad _we_ are back in _our_ bed," Charles admits. "They've so much planned every day that there is hardly time to see the city or catch a wink of sleep much less ..." his lips press lightly against her jaw, against the soft flesh of her neck, against the softness of her shoulder and she sighs at his tender touch. Her scent, a touch of vanilla and musk, fill his senses and her soft murmurings of encouragement cause him to stir in the most delicious ways. Sometimes, he feels like a young groom about to make love to his bride for the first time.

"… You seemed to enjoy yourself well enough, darling. All those women fawning over my handsome man," she teases him as she pulls him atop her. His lips meet hers in a fiery kiss, her hands finding purchase in his hair, as she holds him close.

"Hmphf" Charles grumbles. "They simply confused me with the fellow who plays the butler is all," he whispered against the shell of her ear, his hands roaming every inch of her body, the silk of her nightgown creating an intoxicating friction against her flesh. He feels her smile radiant against his cheek.

"And that one woman. Chatting you up whilst I was signing autographs and taking photographs. Thought I was going to assault her. Show her who you belong to," she laughs and then breathes in a deep, shaking breath as her husband's lips begins moving slowly down her throat, her chest, and to her breast. He kisses the soft, silk covered skin, his palm cupping its fullness. Her back arches in response to his tender attention and as he catches her nipple in his mouth, her breath shutters. _Yes, just there_ , she commands as she arches again and holds him securely.

"You're very authoritative this morning, Dame Elsie." She can almost feel his smile against her flesh, and then he looks up to catch her gaze; his eyes are dark, warm, loving, demanding.

"The title hasn't been conferred yet."

"It has already been announced in the paper. We've just the ceremony to attend after New Year's." Charles shifts to his knees, unbuttons his pajama shirt and unceremoniously discards it; she laughingly calls him an old rogue and slips a slender finger beneath the waistband of his pajama trousers. "I'm very proud of you. My wife the Dame Commander." Suddenly, Elsie becomes very aware of her husband's intentions as he leans down and places small kisses down her stomach whilst his fingertips toy with the hem of her nightgown; she lifts her hips as he inches the garment over her hips until he exposes her. A slight smirk tugs at the corner of his lips when he's met with the fact that she isn't wearing underwear. Leaning down, he kisses her inner thigh, his breath warm and teasing her center.

"Oh Charlie," she sighs. He always knows how to illicit the most wonderful sensations, she thinks. Charles isn't sure whether her comment is in response to his pride in her award or to the kisses he is peppering ever closer to that most special and sacred of places.

* * *

He can barely keep his hands off her. A touch to her hip, a brush of his hand to the small of her back, a kiss to her neck. She hums contentedly, gives him a knowing glance, a sweet smile, gently leans into him. It's all very proper; they've guests, and they would never embarrass themselves or those who've come to share in the holiday cheer, but neither wants to lose the feeling that they shared a few hours earlier. Only Thomas and Beryl seem to pay any attention to the loving gestures shared between husband and wife, teasing them with mentions of words like "lovebirds" and "isn't that sweet." Elsie glares at her incorrigible friends only to pull her lip between her teeth to suppress a smile; they mean no harm and she is proud that she and Charles still "have it" for one another.

The kitchen is filled with the smells of Christmas dinner; the rich aromas of baked turkey and roasting brussel sprouts, and of sage and cornbread stuffing. Elsie and Beryl buzz around the stove and the large butcher block center island where they are readying all the dishes for the big meal; Elsie breaks into a Nat King Cole Christmas standard and Beryl joins in, a wooden spoon becoming their makeshift microphone. Singing around the kitchen reminds them of the old days, when they were young and carefree, and living their tiny flat.

"Like the old days," Beryl waxes nostalgically.

"Except my hair is grayer, my waistline is bigger, and there's more food in the fridge," Elsie laughs.

"And we didn't have an audience."

"Aye," Elsie agrees before a glimmer of memory crosses her face. "Except that poor cat. Remember? The one who climbed on the roof of the building next door and cried at our window every morning wanting scraps?"

"And _you_ fed him when we barely had enough to feed ourselves?"

"Well …" As if on cue, Marlowe, the grey short-haired feline that followed Charles home one day from his local haunt, the Goose and the Gander, appears and rubs himself along Beryl's legs. She can feel his purring as much as hear it and when he looks up at her with wide green eyes, she softens and drops a piece of turkey near her feet. "And I wasn't the only one who had a soft spot now was I?" Elsie laughs.

"Hush. You'll ruin my reputation as an old battle axe," Beryl chides, a smirk tugging at her lips. Elsie wraps her arm around her old pal, hugs her close. No one but a stranger would think that Beryl Mason was really an old battle ax no matter how hard she tries to cultivate the reputation.

* * *

By noon the house is humming with activity and Charles is the ringmaster over all of it and he relishes his place as head of the family. He presides over the table as he has every year since he and Elsie started hosting Christmas dinner at their place the year Charlie was born.

The discussion over Christmas lunch centers around the elder Carsons' trip to the States and Charlie's new job at the Times. His political column runs every Wednesday and is already making waves; he's been invited on several important television news programmes to both Charles and Elsie's delight though Charles wishes that his son shared more of his conservative political leanings rather than his mother's more liberal ones. But they agree to table talk of religion and politics today; the Christmas table is no place for heated discussions about intricacies of British politics or the Brexit vote.

From his position at the head of the table Charles watches them all, his family by blood and by friendship and he's still awed after all these years that he's so lucky. So lucky that the woman who sits to his right is still with him, who though frail and has more infirm days that good ones, can still enjoy the sights of Christmas; that his mother, the stalwart of their family, who has outlived her husband and most of her friends can still enjoy the raucous laughter of the little great-grandson who bears her father's name. And then there are the other women in Charles's life; the sister that he gained by way of Elsie. The flamed-haired, tart-tongued Beryl, who tells it like it is, but loves unconditionally. He would be lost without her friendship. Phyllis Moseley who laughs so easily, who's steadfastness is such a gift to all of them. And Kara, Charlie's wife; She's given their son home and happiness, and borne he and Elsie a grandchild. They all hit it off from day one, and for that he's grateful. And then there's Elsie. He barely has words for what she means to him; his wife, his companion, his best mate. He would be nothing without her. Life would not be worth living without her in it.

And then there are the men. Bill, from whom he is so different, but he is a brother in all the ways that count. Thomas, with whom Charles never thought he would have been friends; a man who is melancholy and always ready with a cutting remark; yet, over the years they've developed respect for one another and a true friendship; they both love Elsie and that in and of itself means a lot in Charles's book. He misses Joe Moseley, taken from them too soon; that's a wound that will never heal. And then there's Charlie, the son born in the summer of their second year of marriage. They had not planned for a child, had just decided to allow nature to take its course. Charles, looks down to Elsie who bounces their grandson on one knee, smiles so sweetly at him; he still remembers the moment Elsie told him that she was pregnant with Charlie; he still remembers the rosy glow in her cheeks, the shyness in her voice as she told him that he was to be a father. He didn't think that his heart could hold any more love. And then Charlie was born, wrinkled and red and screaming and Charles cried when he saw Elsie cradling their babe to her bosom. It was all he imagined and more. And now his son has a boy of his own who sits at the family table, laughing and talking, and gobbling up the Christmas turkey. It has all come full circle. Everything is as it should be; it is right and good.

* * *

'Oh, look who the cat dragged in!" Elsie exclaims as she opens the door to find William and Daisy Mason cuddled together, William holding a bag spilling over with gifts. "Come in. Let me take your coats."

"I'm sorry we're late," Daisy apologizes as she shrugs out of her coat handing it to Elsie. "Our flight just arrived and we came straight here."

"Don't apologize," Elsie assures her. "We're just glad that you're here. Both of you." She gives Daisy a big hug then takes William's coat and hangs together on the coat rack near the door before turning to embrace him. "I'm so happy to see you."

"Happy Christmas Auntie Elsie," William replies wrapping Elsie up as he places a kiss to her cheek.

"Come on, let's fix you a plate of food, you know we have plenty," she offers wrapping one arm around each of them. Cheers of hello erupt the moment that the rest of them see the younger Masons enter the sitting room. Charles waves hello from the floor where he's playing trains with George and Beryl and Bill practically leap from their spots on the sofa to embrace their son and daughter-in-law.

"A sight for sore eyes," Beryl cries as she hugs her son, then looks over him, inspecting him to make sure that he's well and fit. "I'd almost forgotten what you look like."

"Oh mum, I look the same. Just a little thicker round the middle maybe. Thanks to Daisy's cooking," William laughs. When Beryl finally releases him, Bill extends his hand and his son takes it, claps his Dad on the shoulder and the two men exchange warm greetings.

"And you. How I have missed you." She hugs Daisy, the woman she watched grow from an insecure teenager into a confident woman. "Now, you've picked up a bit. Not a skinny girl any more."

"Beryl Mason!" Elsie exclaims. "Honestly, the things you say sometimes. Never mind her, you look gorgeous." Elsie shoots Beryl a withering glance and Beryl looks rightly contrite. Elsie shakes her head; sometimes her friend doesn't think before she speaks, but that's nothing new.

After exchanging Christmas greetings, Elsie and Beryl rush William and Daisy into the kitchen and begin plating up food and asking questions about William's time in service, about when he thinks of retiring from the army and returning to London; they shove mounded plates of food in front of both he and Daisy, tells William that he needs to put some weight on. While Beryl busily chatters away asking questions, Bill is more content to sit back and observe. He notices that William has a bit of an air about him; something peculiar that he hasn't noticed before and that Daisy seems as if she is holding something back, biting back something important, careful not to let her guard down. Something's going on and he can't quite put his finger on it. Beryl inquires of Daisy, asks how her restaurant is fairing and is pleased to find that all is well. She's doing well enough to take on a student, a girl called Ivy. Beryl chuckles, recalls when she hired Daisy on, a wee slip of a thing, and how she was so proud of her not breaking under the pressure of her "teaching style." Daisy laughs and tells her mother-in-law, that poor Ivy suffers much the same but she shuffles along and will be all the better for it. Funny how life is, circular and all that, Elsie remarks as, out of the corner of her eye, she sees Charles and George appear in the kitchen doorway.

"There are my two handsome men," she remarks. Her heart leaps in her chest; it seems as if it is Christmas 1993 and Charles is holding Charlie, as if they have stepped inside some fantastical time machine where time has reversed and she is living life over again.

"Mum's gone up for a nap and Phyllis has gone. Said she'll phone tomorrow. It's time for games when everyone is ready," Charles remarks as George twists in his arms and pats his face with open hands, gentle, but firm.

"Papa." The word is as clear as a bell and Charles eyes light up brightly, eyebrows arching in delight. He hugs George tighter before hoisting him into the air above him causing the boy to giggle in amusement.

"Who am I?"

"Papa! Papa!" George announces with enthusiastic energy.

"That's right my boy. Are you ready for games?"

"Papa! Papa! Papa!" Charles brings the little one back into his safe embrace and the two, grandfather and grandson, hug one another tightly before turning to Elsie. " '

"Come on Granny!" Charles beckons her.

* * *

"No sounds Thomas!" Kara exclaims happily from her spot on the floor. She sits against her husband's knees as she sips on a small glass of brandy and attempts to guess at whatever Thomas is portraying during this round of charades. Flailing about wildly he's becoming characteristically frustrated as no one has yet guessed what he's attempting to portray.

"I'm just going to sit down. This is ridiculous anyway, grown people playing such a silly game. Making fools of themselves," he cries.

"Stop whinging and moaning Thomas," Elsie calls from the corner where she's settled on the arm of Charles's chair, his hand resting lightly upon her knee. "Don't be a spoilsport. Give it one more go."

"Fine," he agrees through gritted teeth.

After a few moments of renewed activity, arms flailing about, and face grimacing, it's little George who shouts out "Zan!" Everyone claps as Thomas dramatically collapses to the floor in relief; George waddles over to him and Thomas scoops the little boy up in his arms. Thomas hasn't any children of his own, and George is as close to a grandson as he will ever have. "Yes, Georgie boy. The answer was indeed Tarzan," Thomas confirms. "You are the most brilliant one of the lot!"

"I have been saying that since the day he was born," Charles agrees. "So, let see, who's next? Daisy perhaps you. Everyone else has had a turn." Charles passes the bowl with the small scraps of paper around to Daisy and she takes it, plunges her hand in, and withdraws a tiny slip. She unfolds the paper and reads the contents and smiles, a little blush creeps up her cheeks, and she looks up to Charles. His eyebrows rise ever so slightly in confirmation. As the arranger of the games, he has written every last slip of paper in the bowl and knows which she has pulled.

"Right then. Here goes. William I may need a bit of help with this." She pulls William into the center of the sitting room and all eyes are trained on them.

Daisy counts on her fingers: one, two.

"Two words," Elsie confirms. Daisy nods and begins counting again, her fingers splayed out wide: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine.

"Nine words?" Bill questions "I thought you said it were two words."

Daisy counts again: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine.

"'Nine', is the word?" Beryl asks and William shakes his head in confirmation. Elsie shifts a bit, wraps her arm around the back of Charles's chair. She realizes that Daisy never showed the slip of paper to William, yet he's confirmed one of the words. _What is going on here?_

"We are still playing movie titles?" Charlie asks and gets confirmation.

"So, two words and the first word is 'Nine'?" Elsie calls from her spot in the corner.

It's William's turn and he begins to make imaginary tick off marks. The audience guesses everything from the days he has left on his leave to how long he and Daisy have known one another until Charles reminds them, they are playing movie titles. Thomas guesses Fahrenheit 9/11, Charlie guesses Nine Lives, Bill pitches in with 9 1/2 weeks which earns him a glare from Beryl; he explains that he's a fool for a young Kim Bassinger, he can't help it.

"Nine Months," Elsie interjects quietly. The whole room stops, stares at her; her eyes are hopeful, her expression loving and trained on William and Daisy. She hopes that she's right, that the couple who have been married for ten years and been childless for as long are making an announcement.

Daisy nods, tears in her eyes. William wraps his arms around her. Bill and Beryl are almost too stunned to move. For a moment everything in the room stops as if it is frozen in time. Charles squeezes Elsie's knee and she looks down at him, tears in her eyes, and she thinks that she sees the same in his. They've loved William as their own and Daisy is as much a part of their heart as Kara.

"Well, looks like Christmas is the time for miracles all round my boy," Bill finally says catching his breath.

"You knew," Elsie leans into Charles, whispers into his ear.

"Only after they arrived," he answers. "They wanted to tell everyone in a special way, so I rigged the game a bit." They watch their family, Charlie and Kara congratulating William and Daisy, little George playing with Thomas, and the Masons, Beryl clinging to Bill, crying tears of joy over the little one who will be born into their family in the coming year; Charles brings Elsie's hand to his lips and kisses it, lays it against his heart.

"We've a good life," Elsie whispers against his forehead.

"I couldn't ask for better."

* * *

I hope you've enjoyed this. It may seem I haven't focused much on Charlie, Charles and Elsie's son, but there is a reason for that. I will focus on him in the main WPIP story. I wanted fluffy, miracle story for Christmas and William and Daisy were it. Happy Christmas everyone.


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